


A Reaper's Intervention

by GhostedMentality



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Relationship Tags To Be Added Later, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, Except the twins, F/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Metamorphmagus Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parseltongue, Powerful!Harry Potter, Reptilia28's Don't Fear the Reaper Challenge, Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostedMentality/pseuds/GhostedMentality
Summary: My response to Reptilia28's "Don't Fear the Reaper" Challenge. Harry goes to sacrifice himself to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, only to find himself laying in an unfamiliar office in front of a person he could almost swear he has met before... someone who is working themselves up into quite the tirade. What was she saying? Something about being here AGAIN!? Things were were getting strange, but that does seem to be up to the usual par, so what's the worst that could happen?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood/Neville Longbottom
Comments: 22
Kudos: 137





	1. The End... Well, Kind Of...

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Fan Fiction and as such I welcome constructive criticism, emphasis on constructive if you please. I have a few story idea's of my own but I figured starting out with a prompt would help me get used to the idea of other people reading what I write.  
> DISCLAIMER:  
> I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters associated with the story. I am not here to make money, I'm here to entertain. J.K. Rowling and those who have bought into the rights are the appropriate owners and do indeed make plenty of money whilst we fanfic writers gleefully play in the sandbox we so utterly favor.

Challenge issued by Reptilia28— 

A funny little challenge I just came up with. It’s a comical twist on the time-travel category. 

STORYLINE: 

• Harry is killed at 17 during a fight with Voldemort. He’s sent to his Death’s office (explained later) and finds out that this isn’t the first time that this has happened. 

• Harry’s Death (who can have a human name) is mad at his arrival. Apparently, people dying before their time is a black mark on the various Deaths’ records, and Harry is getting perilously close to getting this particular one fired. 

• When Harry asks what was supposed to have happened, Death goes off on a rant, saying how he was supposed to have killed Voldemort, found his soulmate (“Some Granger girl...”) and lived to be a centennial age. But since Harry keeps getting into life-threatening situations for one reason or another, he keeps dying before that happens. Harry is surprised about the “soulmate” part. 

• Death gives Harry a paper to sign that allows him to retain his memories (the previous times, he wasn’t given this option for some reason). Harry is deposited to a previous time of the writer’s choosing. 

• Eventually, Harry gets it right. He kills Voldemort, gets the girl, and lives to a ripe old age of whatever. And Death doesn’t get fired. 

REQUIREMENTS: 

• Harry had to have died at least three times before this one. 

• The memory-keeping contract must be included. 

• Death must refer to Hermione as “some Granger girl” when Harry’s soulmate turns up in his rant. 

• Obviously, must be H/Hr. 

• Have fun. 

OPTIONAL: 

• Dumbledore’s manipulations can be a factor in Harry’s premature demises. 

The End... Kind Of...

The end of Voldemort’s speech echoed through the halls of Hogwarts castle, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Harry decided that at the very least it was eloquent, if not poorly timed as he stood in front of the entire Great Hall. He looked around making note of the various expressions on the faces staring back at him, and every single person in the hall was staring at him in that moment. Some were terrified, some resolute. A few were furious, seeming to look around in a desperate anger as if searching for something to lash out against for the injustice of their circumstance. Harry could relate to those people. 

Other faces stared back accusingly, as if his very existence was at fault for their every inconvenience today. Harry certainly noted those who were obviously considering, if not advocating those inside the castle take Voldemort up on his oh so generous offer. After all, what was his one life compared to the lives of everyone else still inside the Castle. It was worth noting that not all the Slytherins looked at him as though he were the preferential sacrificial lamb, even if that seemed the general consensus of the house of the snakes. 

Harry looked around, trying to spot Hermione or Ron. He knew the path he would take, but he thought it might be nice to say goodbye. Suddenly from the crowd he heard the voice of Pansy Parkison ringing out. 

“There he is, grab him!” She shrieked, pointing dramatically in his direction as though no one else in the room was looking right at him. 

Harry’s eyes felt like they might manage to roll right out of his head. Several of the students who had remained in the castle from each of the houses seemed to move towards him as one, only to find themselves at the wand points of a greater number of the others. Most of them did not surprise Harry in the least, but a few of them certainly did. From Hufflepuff, Justin Finch-Fletchley gazed angrily through the intervening crowd at Harry. 

“What are you all thinking!? Let him have Potter, so he’ll let us all go!” Justin boomed out indignantly. “If he just wants Potter, then we don’t have to die!” 

“Are you insane, or just stupid?” came an interruption from a quarter Harry did not expect. “The Dark Lord won’t just give up and leave if we give him Potter. You do know that, don’t you?” a clear voice called out from the crowd of Slytherins, surprising not only Harry, but the majority of the room as well. 

A girl Harry recognized as Tracey Davis pushed her way to the front of the Slytherin Crowd. 

“He isn’t here just for Potter,” Tracey fumed, “He’s here for all of us” 

Another girl, Daphne Greengrass Harry thought, came up next to Tracey, watching the darkening expressions on her fellow Slytherins. “You all know she’s right, don’t act like she is betraying the house,” Daphne stated with heat, making her drawn wand visible. 

“Enough!” The irate voice of Professor Minerva McGonagall called over the burgeoning argument. Grumbling could be heard from those who seemed to be in favor of trading Harry’s life for their own. As the volume began to increase and wands began to be brandished threateningly from both sides, those professors who were in the hall began trading nervous glances. Even as those who were against the idea began forming up defensively in front of Harry, Harry himself noted that Ron and Hermione seemed to have disappeared from the crowd, and he hadn’t heard either of them speaking out in his defense. 

Looking around again, Harry realized that no one was looking at him anymore, having focused on their own argument and disregarded the very subject in the process. All those people in the castle were waiting for the shoe to drop. Waiting tensely for a new attack, a new tragedy, and Harry realized that only he could prevent that. 

While he realized that Voldemort wouldn’t stop if he killed Harry, he thought that perhaps he could delay the attacks long enough for the Aurors, or just about anyone else to arrive and provide assistance. Harry honestly hoped that Hogwarts wouldn’t be left to fall by the rest of the wizarding world. This was a school, for Merlin’s sake. Someone had to feel Hogwarts was worth saving, if only they had enough time to arrive. Harry knew he could provide that time. 

Spotting Neville near the entrance to the Great Hall, Harry made his way towards the boy he had come to know as extraordinarily loyal and reliable. Calling out to his friend quietly as he neared the other boy, Harry saw Neville look up with a mixed expression of fatigue, determination, and trepidation. “Neville, I need your help with something!” 

“You’re not going to go out there are you?” Neville returned with a suspicious glare. “You can’t.” 

“Er... no, no.” Harry lied, hoping he was being convincing. “I just need to tell you something and I need you to help me with it. Voldy has a snake we need to kill, it’s important.” Neville smirked lightly at the nickname for the Dark Lord. 

“Why do you need me?” Neville asked, his newfound confidence still battling with a lifetime of insecurity and self-doubt. 

“You’re the only one I can trust to see this through, no matter what.” Harry made sure to put as much conviction in his voice as he could muster, letting Neville know that Harry had complete confidence in his abilities. “Here, use this. It’s been soaked in Basilisk Venom and it will definitely do the trick.” Harry handed over the Sword of Gryffindor, watching Neville’s eyes widen comically. 

“This is-” Neville started in surprise. 

“I know, but you are definitely the one to use it.” Harry interrupted, carefully pressing the legendary sword into Nevilles’ hands. Harry stepped away from Neville before he had any chance to argue. “I have to find some other people, Neville. Be ready and make sure you kill that snake!” Harry stated in parting. 

Walking out of the Great Hall, still hearing the remnants of the arguments carrying on. No one seemed to have noticed his exit, which Harry might have found amusing if the situation wasn’t so dire. Still looking for Hermione or Ron, Harry couldn’t help but see the dead strewn along the halls of the ancient castle. Hogwarts was paying a heavy price for the temporary safety of its staff and students. Evidence of battle was everywhere along the outside walls. Though the interior architecture showed less of the stress of war, injured and dead still lay about in groups or isolated in their terror. 

Glassy eyes darted to meet his from the stricken faces of those too young to deal with the horrors of war. Those seemed a blessing in comparison to the empty stares of the dead that seemed to condemn Harry as he made his way. Each an accusation, a witness to what he felt was his damning failure to have found the Horcruxes in time to stop Voldemort. He felt responsibility for each and every body, each and every terrified expression of the survivors of each battle thus far. 

Making his way towards the entrance to the castle, Harry came across a small knot of people. He recognized Luna Lovegood bent over a crying boy that was definitely too young to still be in the castle. The young boy was sobbing, seeming to try to hold his own tattered chest together as he bled heavily. Luna was trying her best, whispering what healing magic she knew with silent tears falling down her cheeks. Even as she incanted spell after spell, Harry watched the light leave the young man's eyes as his turbulent breathing slowed to halt. Luna paused, a broken sob hiccupping from her. She moved back and seemed to notice Harry as he passed only for a moment as she turned to another injured student. Her gaze lacked any of the airy, lackadaisical expression she was known for. Instead, she was angrily focusing on doing everything she could to save those around her, even as she cried for those she lost. 

Harry decided against asking her if she had seen any of his other friends, moving past her resolutely, knowing that if he stopped Luna might just be able to convince him to change course or even hold him up long enough to get backup to prevent his going about his goal. 

He cleared the doors, making his way out onto the grounds. He had yet to spot those he truly wished to see. Hermione was on the forefront of his mind, but he thought that perhaps this was for the best. She would never just let him go. Ron would argue, Harry decided, but he would probably understand what Harry felt he needed to do. Despite Ron’s jealousy and his argumentative temper, Harry knew Ron was his friend and would understand his decisions. 

Slipping on his fathers’ Invisibility Cloak the moment he arrived outside, Harry began trekking his way towards the Forbidden Forest. As he walked, he looked forlornly at the many dead scattered across the school grounds. Robes from each house became nearly indistinguishable on the bodies lying all across the bloody grass and mud. It was difficult not to reflect on the lack of difference, as each torn body seemed to closely resemble the next one littering his path. 

Movement drew his attention and he had to prevent himself from diving for cover, momentarily forgetting that he was invisible. Ginny Weasley was picking her way across the grounds, making her way towards the castle. Her shellshocked expression leaving her pale and wide-eyed, she did her best not to look at the faces of the victims of the Death-eaters. Harry felt himself drawn to her, nearly revealing himself. He fought down the impulse viciously. He did not want to hurt her more by arguing his decision with her and he certainly did not want her deciding to come with him. He knew she was probably angry with him about his choice to protect her by dumping her, but she wasn’t the kind of person to hold that against him enough to let him walk to his death, Harry felt. 

Slipping past her with one last fleeting, longing gaze, Harry left the last of his friends behind. Coming up to Hagrid’s hut, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the gentle half-giant. Continuing into the ancient forest, Harry followed an obviously recent path towards where he knew Voldemort was waiting for him. As he walked, he couldn’t help but hear a voice in his mind that sounded surprisingly like Hermione admonishing him for what she felt was his complete foolishness. It was almost as if she were right next to him, angrily grumbling about idiotic boys with overblown hero complexes. 

Shaking his head, Harry recalled the snitch that Dumbledore had left to him. If there ever was a time to give the thing one last try, Harry felt it was now. Pulling it from his Mokeskin Pouch, Harry gave it a light glare. “I’m about to die, so if you are going to open now is your last chance,” He told it. Surprisingly, it opened with a quiet pop, dropping out the stone that Harry remembered being on the ring horcrux. Harry recognized it now as the Resurrection stone and recalled the story of the Peverell brothers. Turning the Stone with his hand, he watched the ghostly forms of his parents coalesce in front of him. Slowly, other forms came into focus and Harry let his tears fall freely as he looked into the faces of Sirius, Remus, and Tonks, and others he could only assume were members of his extended family. His mother cried with him, reaching out as if to touch his cheek. 

Later, he honestly couldn’t recall the words to the conversation he carried on with his dead family and friends. He remembered their encouragement, their resolve, and how proud they seemed of his decision. It was a memory that was bittersweet and left him feeling empty and angry, but as it was one of the few he had of his parents, he treasured it nonetheless. He could remember his family telling him they would stay with him until the end as they ushered him further along the path, creeping slowly as to avoid any sentries detecting his footsteps on the forest floor. 

A sharp puff of breath alerted him to another presence in the forest, and he spotted Dolohov peering out into the woods back in the direction of the castle. A great wave of anger rose upon seeing the man as memories of Hermione’s pained and pale face in the hospital wing after her own encounter with the death-eater. Harry stared for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Each second of looking into the face of Hermione’s attacker stoked his anger into an ever-deepening rage. This man had nearly stolen her from him, had nearly ended the most important woman in Harry’s life! Harry did not stop to consider that thought, breezing right over his mental declaration of Hermione’s paramount importance. 

Harry quietly drew his wand, preparing to take at least one enemy with him on his crusade to give up his life as Dumbledore had told him was necessary. Even as the cutting curse was on his lips and aimed at Dolohov’s neck, he could hear Dumbledore’s disappointed voice, see his unhappy expression. Around him, his family seemed to fade slightly, moving fractionally further from him as he tried to convince himself that this man, of all people, must deserve a fate such as this. In the end, something held him up. He glared at Dolohov as he slipped past him. Hermione would not have wanted him to become a skulking murderer, he felt. As Harry made his way further up the path away from Dolohov, the specters of his family came closer again, encouraging him to continue. 

Harry knew he was close when he heard the voice of Bellatrix LeStrange taunting someone, and shortly the light of a large fire came through the trees. The closer he came, the more he could hear and then, suddenly, the clearing came completely into view. At the head of the crowd sat Voldemort on an ornate throne that was either conjured up or brought with them. To his right, tied to a tree, was Hagrid. This answered the question of what had happened to Harry’s first friend. Bellatrix was flitting between carrying on in front of Hagrid and cursing something laying at his feet that Harry couldn’t see beyond her. The anger and sadness on Hagrid’s face only seemed to delight the deranged woman. 

Walking into the clearing under his cloak, Harry stepped past dozens of Death-Eaters and made his way directly in front of his hated tormentor. Once Harry was standing directly in front of Voldemort, the Dark Lord suddenly stiffened. 

“Quiet, Bellatrix.” Voldemort said softly, instantly stilling his psychotic lieutenant, but not without a small pout. “We seem to have a guest” Voldemort continued. “Reveal yourself, Potter. We know you are here.” 

Pulling off his cloak, Harry stood as straight and resolute as anyone could while staring into the face of their impending death. Voldemort’s eyes zeroed in on Harry’s and instantly a blinding pain flared from Harry’s scar. Wincing, but determined not to show weakness or cower before Voldemort, Harry stepped forward again. 

“You called, Tom?” 

Eyes narrowing angrily, Voldemort stood. As he opened his mouth to speak, Hagrid interrupted loudly, 

“’Arry, no! Yeh got teh get out o’ ‘ere” 

A wordless silencing charm flashed towards Hagrid’s bound form as Bellatrix hissed angrily in the half-giants direction. “DO NOT INTERRUPT OUR LORD,” she shrieked with venom in her voice. 

“Peace, Bella.” Voldemort whispered, somehow projecting his soft tones across the entire clearing. “He will learn soon enough to respect his Lord, or he will die most painfully.” 

“I’m still here, Tom. Don’t we have some unfinished business, or would you like me to come back later?” Harry snarked, doing his best to draw attention from Hagrid. 

“No, Potter. You will not be going anywhere.” Voldemort returned with some amusement in his voice. Harry thought he could detect a trace of mania, as though Voldemort was just barely containing his glee at how easily Harry had come to him. “So you have come, have you? Come to give your life for your pitiful friends.” 

“You will not win, Tom.” Harry stated, trying to inject conviction and surety into his voice. “Either today, or another day soon, you will be destroyed.” Harry continued, lifting his chin in defiance. 

Smirking, Voldemort laughed lightly, “We shall see, won’t we?” he said loud enough to carry to everyone in the clearing. Raising his wand, Voldemort tilted his head to the side and whispered, “Avada Kedavra!” 

As the deathly green spell raced towards Harry, he hoped desperately that this would indeed save his friends. A flash of blindingly white light was the last thing that Harry took note of as the spell struck him and he crumpled to the ground, body lifeless.


	2. An Unscheduled Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if waking up in strange places really was old hat to Harry by now, this one might just take the cake. Who is this lady? Did she just say he was DEAD? Oh, brilliant. At least she doesn't seem interested in keeping him in the dark for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! This garnered more of a response than I was originally expecting. That said, life is a busy thing. I won't update on a daily basis, but I hate being left hanging for long periods of time so I won't be doing that to you if I can help it. Beta'd by my wonderful wife, T. She keeps me up to par with my grammar and such.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters associated with the story. I am not here to make money, I'm here to entertain. J.K. Rowling and those who have bought into the rights are the appropriate owners and do indeed make plenty of money whilst we fanfic writers gleefully play in the sandbox we so utterly favor.

A slowly coalescing ringing sound was the first thing that announced Harry’s meandering and confused return to consciousness. Next came an overpowering brightness that pierced his closed eyelids and made him reluctant to open his eyes. Moving his arm to cover his face brought the realization of feeling to his body, which led to an understanding that he could, in fact, move at all. Bit by bit, all of his senses returned to him, dragging the rest of his faculties to full awareness. 

In the fashion of those who come unexpectedly to the waking world, Harry’s first coherent and complex thought was ‘What...?’ which was quickly followed up by ‘Erm...’ as he tried to understand where he was and what was going on all without sitting up and opening his eyes. 

Making the executive decision that lying about pretending to be dead wasn’t going to answer any questions, Harry felt about for his wand quietly, hoping not to draw attention of anyone potentially nearby as he prepared to leap up and take quick stock of his surroundings. Ascertaining that he did not have a wand was less than inspiring, but he had no other options. 

Cracking an eye open carefully, Harry fought the urge to wince at the influx of light to his still sensitive eyes. Looking about, Harry saw that he was in an office of some sort, lying on the floor. It was at that moment that he realized that he was quite naked, and that the floor was a bit cold for all that. Leaping up, Harry’s eyes flashed around the room as quickly as he could manage only to land on the less-than-impressed, no-nonsense face of a dark-skinned woman in a pressed business suit sitting behind a desk that had been directly behind him as he sprang to his feet. Given the circumstances, Harry did the only thing he could: he froze like a deer staring into oncoming traffic. 

“Er...” Harry’s glance darted downward as he became ever more aware of his state of dress. 

With an infinitely exacerbated sigh and a wave of her well-manicured hand (Her nails were painted a deep blood-red and looked distinctly like the very sharp talons of a bird-of-prey), dull grey robes appeared on Harry, letting him relax ever so slightly. “Better now?” Her voice was the rich and deeply resonant tones of one who sang beautifully for a living. Yet there was an underlying steel in her tone that made Harry think that she was not pleased to see him in the least. 

“I... Yes... Thanks very much, Madam...?” Harry stated, giving his voice the lilt of a question as he queried the woman for her name. 

“I am not ‘Madam’ anything to you, young man.” The woman bit out. “Just once through without ruining everything, that’s all I ever ask of you. But no, absolutely not. Never that simple with you, is it Mister Potter!?” the woman began to rant. 

Not knowing how to respond, nor what she was actually talking about, Harry began glancing around for any possible exits. The room was spartan, to say the least. Four plain, unmarked and uninterrupted walls, each around four meters in length surrounded the dark wood of the desk occupied by a woman slowly building up a head of steam over who knew what. There were no shelves, no doors, no portraits, and no windows to cover up the painfully white walls that seemed to be illuminated from within, so bright was the room. 

“Oh, you can’t run away this time either, Mister Potter. Maybe if you didn’t spend so much energy trying to escape your problems instead of working to solve them, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Storm grey eyes bored into Harry as he turned again to look at who he perceived as his captor. “And don’t be so melodramatic,” she finished with a huff. 

“You will call me Xixiri, or Ciri if you are more inclined.” She provided, as if Harry may not be capable of even that much. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork you are causing me? Can you even begin to comprehend how busy I am? Yet you, in your complete ineptitude, cannot even go one single lifetime without completely messing up. The Fates are probably having a coronary, having to adjust and reweave the skein for each of your impossible fuckups. All you had to do was kill that disgusting abomination Tom Riddle had made himself into, get with your soulmate... some Granger girl-” 

Harry choked on the reply he was about to make at that statement. 

“- work with her to drag the British wizarding world into the modern century with law reforms and magical advancements, and live to a ripe old age with dozens of great-great-grandchildren to see you off into the afterlife.” 

Harry watched warily as the woman – Ciri – continued to rant, his sense of indignant anger and dumbfounded confusion growing by the second. Who the hell was this woman? Hermione was his soul-mate, how was that possible? Deciding to derail whatever train of insulting comments Ciri was setting the tracks for, Harry growled out, “Look lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t even know where I am! Maybe you could start by explaining just what the bloody hell is going on!” By the time he ended, his voice had risen several decibels and he knew his temper was beginning to rise. 

Ciri’s eyes narrowed menacingly at the obvious ire in Harry’s tone. Sitting up primly, she responded to his questions crisply, “You, Mr. Potter, are dead. Again.” She paused to observe his reaction to these words. 

“D-dead?” Harry sputtered, “I don’t feel like I’m dead. Wait... again? What do you mean again?” Harry felt the room beginning to spin as the implications of what that could mean whirled around in his mind. “Are you saying I’ve been here before? That I have DIED before!?” 

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Ciri returned heatedly. “Sit; we have a great deal to discuss because you cannot seem to follow the path of your destiny, no matter how many chances we give you.” 

Harry’s changed rapidly from incredulity at the lack of a seat in which he was supposed to sit to surprise as he noted that indeed there was a comfortable looking chair sitting in front of the desk. He could have sworn there was nothing there just a second ago. Ciri’s expression turned impatient while she glanced pointedly at the chair and then back to Harry, so he quickly took a seat. 

“How... how many times have I been here?” Harry asked with not a little bit of trepidation. How many times had he died? Did that mean he had faced Voldemort several other times? Or maybe other things had killed him... He couldn’t properly wrap his mind around the situation. 

“Including this, 12 times. You have died prematurely 12 separate times.” Ciri replied, turning to a filing cabinet that had materialized when Harry wasn’t paying attention. He got the feeling this room wouldn’t be great for his sanity if he remained there for long. “Your first death was... November 1st, 1981. You succumbed to exposure after crawling away from your Aunt and Uncle’s porch in the middle of the night. Admittedly, you shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but that is an entirely different topic.” 

“Well, that wasn’t my fault then, now was it?” Harry pointed out with a measured bit of indignance. 

“Your next death was April 14th, 1983.” Ciri continued, ignoring Harry’s outburst. “Your relatives left you to starve for too long.” 

Harry’s expression soured. If he was going to have to hear about every death that couldn’t possibly be his fault, he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his temper in check. 

“Next, you managed to break your neck after being pushed down the stairs by your Cousin Dudley. That was December 20th 1987. Now these, I can understand as nothing to do with your own choices. You did not choose to be at your relatives’ house. Nor did you do anything yourself to inspire their behavior. The onus for that lies solely at the feet of one Albus Wulfric Dumbledore.” Ciri’s tone darkened considerably by the end of this comment. 

“Er... It’s Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, actually,” Harry found himself blurting before he could think better of interrupting. His voice trailed slowly as he caught the expression on Ciri’s face. 

“Is it now?” Ciri responded condescendingly. “And you, being the ever so knowledgeable mortal that you are, would know so much more than I, a fully-fledged, high ranking Reaper of Souls?” 

An ominous chill crept down Harry’s spine at her acidic question. Reaper of Souls? Suddenly Harry’s temper felt small and likely ill advised. 

“Better.” Ciri’s eyes flashed as she settled back into her chair. “No, Albus added Percival and Brian to his name to seem more impressive after his supposed defeat of Gellert Grindelwald. His full real name was simply Albus Wulfric Dumbledore.” 

“Are you saying that he didn’t defeat Grindelwald?” Harry asked, unable to help himself. Dumbledore represented the solid foundation upon which he had built his entire perception of the Magical World. 

“Oh, after a fashion. If you call stunning and magically binding your lover in bed while they slept, then dumping them in a prison cell under a permanent glamour to be used as your personal play thing later ‘defeating’ someone.” Ciri said with a bland tone. “Albus was a master manipulator who used every circumstance to his advantage, even if he had to manufacture those circumstances himself. He never disagreed with Grindelwald’s end goals, merely with his methods.” 

Harry could feel his incredulity warring with his need to hear more; to know the truth no matter how much it challenged his world view. He hadn’t yet decided if he could fully trust Ciri but he also wasn’t sure what sort of choice he had. Her next statement had him paling significantly. 

“There is no other choice for you here, you are correct about that.” Ciri responded to his unspoken musings, showing that he had no secrets here. Knowing that he was fully at the mercy of this Reaper, Harry decided a straightforward, though polite, approach was likely his best bet to get anywhere positive in this encounter. Ciri’s smug expression kept Harry quiet as he waited for her to continue recounting his various deaths. 

“Your fourth death occurred in your first year while serving your detention in the Forbidden Forest.” Ciri resumed with her explanation. “We had to inspire Firenze to come and save you to fix that disaster after Quirrell murdered you when you found him with the Unicorn.” 

“Frankly, I’m amazed you made it past Hagrid’s cerberus without any issues.” She added acerbically. 

Your fifth was in the summer before your second year. Your relatives starved you to death slowly. We had to plant the idea of coming to rescue you in...” She glanced down at her file for a moment. “Fred and George Weasley.” 

“I thought Ron got them to help him,” Harry interjected, confused. 

“Ha!” Ciri guffawed, “I don’t think that boy has yet to have had a thought that didn’t center around himself or food. Ronald Weasley was, at best, a tool of Albus Dumbledore and his own mother. At worst, he was a jealous, self-centered brat who was well on his way to becoming a rapist just to spite you, who thought of him as your best friend. Not that you honestly would have if it hadn’t been for all the loyalty potions.” 

The following silence was eerie and broken only by the choking, sputtering sounds Harry made as he tried to process what Ciri had just told him. 

“What...?” Harry’s voice was very small. “What... Rapist? Loyalty Potions?” Harry could hardly hear himself as he tried to talk around the lump forming in his throat, the pounding in his chest, and the roaring in his ears. He hardly noticed the momentary look of pity crossing the face of Xixiri, timeless Reaper of Souls. 

“Ronald Weasley, aided by his sister, Ginevra, his mother, Molly Weasley nee Prewett, and Albus Dumbledore, kept you and your soulmate....” Glancing down again and turning some pages in the file, Ciri tapped a blood-red talon against a line on the paper she stopped on, “One Hermione Jean Granger, potioned to the gills to meet some personal goals of the Weasley Matriarch and Albus. Molly wanted the Potter fortune, and later the Black fortune when you became the Black Heir as well. Ginevra simply wanted the recognition of having snagged The-Boy-Who-Lived, and Albus wanted someone to help keep you under his control. He knew this would have been impossible if you had someone like Ms. Granger tied so closely to you and watching out for your interests.” 

Harry felt a sick, rushing sensation in his guts as Ciri explained just how deep the machinations of those he trusted ran. The words she spoke ground each and every one of his beliefs about his life to dust. He began to believe in that moment that he had never had any true friends, that just maybe everyone had simply toyed with him while he bumbled along trustingly. How could he have been so blind? Was there no one he could trust? 

Even as those thoughts and others just as bleak ran through his mind, another shone through like a lighthouse over a dark and stormy ocean of fears and doubts; Hermione. Hermione had cared. She was genuine in her friendship and, if Ciri was to be believed, she was his soulmate. But Hermione had been kept from him. They had been forcefully kept from realizing their feelings for each other by the same people whose machinations had likely led to who knew how many of his other deaths. 

Xixiri noted that her charge was beginning to see the picture she had been trying to paint for him, so she continued. “When you died, having starved to death after being locked in your room with inadequate food, we sent you back and inserted the idea for the twins to look into your well-being, and later to come to your rescue in time to get you to school.” 

“Your sixth death was later that year, and this one is entirely on you Mr. Potter.” Ciri began, glaring daggers at Harry all the while. “What, in all the realms of existence, convinced you to run completely unprepared into the lair of a basilisk, THAT YOU KNEW ABOUT, I WILL ADD, without so much as a word to anyone other than that pompous idiot you called a defense professor!?” She was practically shrieking by the end. 

“Do you know how much trouble I had finding a solution to that mess!?” Ciri continued yelling, “Lucky for you, Fawkes was willing to lend a hand. We have limited options in repairing mistakes made by our charges, you know? It’s not like we can just rewrite everything on a whim! We have to let you make your own decisions, idiotic as they tend to be.” Ciri ranted. “I couldn’t stop you from going down into the chamber so I had to bargain with the Fates to allow Fawkes’ intervention. You have no idea what it is like bargaining with the Fates!” 

Arguing with his own Reaper, especially when he couldn’t help but agree with how stupid his decision was in hindsight, didn’t seem like a good plan to Harry; instead he attempted to redirect her before she could get fully up to speed in her building tirade. “So, if that was my sixth death, what about my seventh?” 

Ciri looked at him sharply with a knowing frown, but allowed the less than subtle maneuver to stand. “Your seventh death was, astoundingly, over a year later. You somehow managed to make it through playing with time and fighting off over a hundred dementors without needing my help. I believe I will credit Ms. Granger with that year's success. However, you made up for it during your Fourth year quite spectacularly. This was also the year that Albus and his constituents began potioning Ms. Granger to inspire her infatuation with the walking stomach named Ronald Weasley. Luckily for Ms. Granger, the potions were subtle and not of the overly powerful sort just yet, otherwise you would have noticed.” 

Harry was beginning to fume at each mention of the redhead he had so strongly believed to be his best friend. Emotions rushed through him far too quickly to settle on a single feeling. Fury at the implied manipulation of both himself and Hermione Granger, fear at how far things had been taken against Hermione’s conscious will, sadness at the lie that represented what he had thought was his closeness to the Weasley family, and so many more sensations he didn’t have the presence of mind to pin down in that moment. 

“You died three times during your fourth year.” Ciri began again, having paused for Harry to think for a moment. “Your seventh death was rather obvious, yet again. You tried to outfly a dragon. Even after I sent you back, you stubbornly retried your attempt at suicide by dragon. I called in a favor and had the winds aid you while working against your dragon to see you through that mess. You better believe that you will pay for the lunch date I had to spend with the West Winds’ undersecretary when you finally come back here after your final death,” Ciri grumbled. 

“Your eighth death wasn’t even during a task, actually. Too many people tried to potion you into going to the Yule Ball with them, which mixed with all of the other potions you were already under to end in a gruesome poisoning that I must say was one for the record books. You know, if you had only been wearing the Heir ring of the Potters’ you never would have had that issue.” Harry could tell Ciri was still quite irritated with him, as she hadn’t let up her dark glare as she continued to inform Harry of his deaths. While he didn’t want to interrupt her, the remark about an Heir’s ring was something he was going to ask about later. Anything to do with his family, he was dying to hear... figuratively, anyway. 

“You know, that is something we will need to do before you go back.” Ciri noted. Harry waited for her to expand upon her comment, but she didn’t seem to be interested in doing so; other than writing something down on a clipboard that Harry blinked at, realizing it hadn’t been there a second ago. He had been looking right at Ciri but he could not remember the clipboard having shown up at all. Harry glanced around the room again, wondering if he would see any other mysteriously appearing objects. 

“Pay attention!” was Ciri’s sharp response to his wayward glance. 

Snapping his eyes back to the Reaper. Harry’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw her smirking at him over a cup of what smelled like strong tea. A full service seemed to have arrived in the moment he looked away, complete with a steaming cup directly in front of him. Harry’s suspicious glance back at Ciri was met with another smirk. The clipboard was nowhere in sight. 

Ciri proceeded to ring a bell (which wasn’t there a moment ago, Harry was sure of it). “Before we continue, I believe we should call a guest or two that might lend further credence and insight to the remainder of this conversation.” 

“What can I do for you, Xixiri?” A rough, gravelly voice came from directly behind Harry, sending him scrambling forward out of his chair, fumbling for a wand that wasn’t there with a yell that was certainly not high-pitched and a little girly. No, certainly not. Standing behind the chair Harry had just occupied was a hooded figure with pale, scarred hands being the only visible skin outside of his robes... robes that seemed to be made entirely of grey smoke. Stringy white hair hung down from within the hood, giving the only indication that there might be a face within those intimidating shadows. 

“Oh, aren’t you one for the dramatics today,” came Ciri’s amused response. Glancing at Harry, she introduced the newcomer, “This is Rivalt, my... assistant.” Ciri’s remark was met by an impatient noise from Rivalt, causing her to grin. Harry found her smile a tad bit frightening; Rivalt seemed unfazed. 

“Rivalt, be a dear and retrieve our guests. I believe it Is time.” Even as she finished her sentence, Rivalt’s entire person dissolved into the air as if made of nothing but the smoke of his cloak, fading quickly into nothingness over the spot where he had been standing. Moments later, smoke again filled the area, now expanding to fill a larger space. Out of the roiling grey cloud walked two people Harry had waited his entire life to meet again face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very kindly for spending your time with my story today! Be of good cheer, do good things, and have fun!  
> Points if you get the origins of the names!  
> Xixiri is based off of Dinai Gurira in her role as Okoye (Black Panther, 2019), with the exception of eye color.


	3. A Few More Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings galore! More people to introduce, more backstory to build! A Family and an old Dog! An Aspect of Death got grounded to his room! Old Ladies and a man inspired by frogs! Honestly, this is a hodgepodge of stuff to help set the stage for later content and conversations. I apologize for taking so long. Life is in a state of truly horrid chaos at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something important that I hadn't even realized that I had neglected: The disclaimer!  
> I don't own Harry Potter. Rowling does. This should be obvious but let us not doubt those who would rather find reasons to start arguments. I'm very obviously not making money off of this, or I would spend far, far more time on it.
> 
> Another thing to note: Beta read by my lovely wife who has an account here and writes far better than I do; Taelr.

Harry’s eyes met his mother’s for the first time in his conscious memory. Piercing green found piercing green and both sets had tears forming in them. 

“Mum?”

Turning his head, he found his father. He could immediately understand why everyone said he looked just like him. At first glance you might think they were twins, right down to the exact way their messy hair stuck up in all directions. The most glaring difference were his brown eyes, though they were also filled with as of yet unshed tears.

“Dad,” There was no question anymore. Harry knew he was looking at his parents.

“Hello, son.” James was the first to speak, but his words opened the floodgates that had been holding back the tears of the reunited family. Lily rushed forward and wrapped Harry in a hug that was returned with vigor. 

Tears are certainly going to be a given when an orphan meets their  long-lost family.

“My  _ baby _ !” Lily cried as she held her son. “Oh, I’ve  _ missed _ you!” 

Harry had never been one for physical contact, the Dursleys had seen to that. Yet, for once, he found that he was completely comfortable with it; he might even admit to relishing the contact with his mother that he had craved all of his life. 

James looked on for a moment as his wife and son reunited with a soppy grin on his face before he gave in and joined the hug, squeezing them both with a profound joy that everyone in the room could feel. 

“Right,” Rivalt’s abrupt tone cut in, “That’s enough for me.” As the last words of his declaration faded from the room, so did he. 

If the Potters noticed the comment or the vanishing man, it didn’t show. Their reunion continued for several minutes and it wasn’t until Ciri cleared her throat for the third time that any of them remembered the rest of the room. Turning to face Ciri, the group continued to cling to one another and relish in the contact each had craved for 16 long years. 

“Sit, please.”  Xixiri intoned lightly. 

Looking back towards the chair he had previously occupied, Harry found himself less than surprised at its absence. Quirking an eyebrow, Harry began to ask where they ought to sit, only for Lily to pull him down onto a couch that had apparently appeared behind the group whilst they were busy hugging the stuffing out of one another. Lily and James didn’t seem to make any fuss about the randomly appearing and disappearing furniture, so Harry decided to let it drop and just roll with it. Sandwiched between his parents, he could honestly say he was quite content and wouldn’t have been bothered if the room refurnished itself in gold and satin, or the dourest of drudgery. 

“While I understand that this is a momentous occasion for each of you, we have much to discuss and thus must continue.”  Xixiri’s words held a tinge of amusement under her normally serious  mien .

“First, we need to get Sirius.” returned James.

“I have no intention of being anything but serious, James Charlus Potter.” came Ciri’s rebuttal. The professional tones and appearance of  Xixiri , Reaper of Souls, never wavered for a moment. Meanwhile James Potter, Marauder, fell to a moment of confusion. Lily just smirked, enjoying any moment when someone else got one over on her prankster husband. 

“W-wha-...? No, I meant...” James gave several false starts trying to figure out if Ciri was making a joke or if he dared assume she did not understand his intentions.

“Is this going to be an all-day thing,  Xixiri ?”  Rivalt ’s voice sounded from behind the couch, startling the family.

“C’mon, Smokey! It’s fun to prank people, right Prongslet?” 

“Padfoot!” came Harry’s shout as he dove over the couch to wrap his  dogfather in a crushing hug, more happy tears running down his cheeks. 

No one took any note of the indignant glare  Rivalt sent Sirius at the unappreciated appellation ‘Smokey’. Without waiting for any further comments from anyone, the man vanished again. 

“I’m so sorry, Padfoot,” Harry cried. “I shouldn’t have let Tom lure me to the  DoM , I should have known!” 

Sirius held Harry through his sobs. “It wasn’t your fault, Prongslet!” he declared severely, causing Harry to look up at him in apprehensive confusion.

“But...” Harry began

“No ‘Buts’, Harry.” Lily supplied, “You were set up by someone you trusted, and lured by a vile man who has tricked many far older and more experienced than yourself. Dumbledore knew of the connection between you and Tom Riddle; knew it could be used against you. He had Severus ensure your mind was weak to that connection and refused to tell you of the Prophesy. Severus made sure Tom Riddle knew who to use to lure you out, and  Kreature betrayed the head of the Black Family in hopes of turning control over to Draco Malfoy so that he could serve Narcissa Malfoy n ée Black. The whole situation was a contrived manipulation from several sides with you being caught up in the middle.”

Harry spent a moment absorbing that information, his growing ire plain to see. Dumbledore had set him up? Of course, he knew that an elf could go against his family, though he’d thought they were far more limited than that. Dobby was his only experience with an elf that worked against the wishes of his family though, so it was quite probable that he didn’t know very much about the limits of House Elf behavior. Snape was easy, no matter what his memories showed of his supposed love for Harry’s mother, his hatred for all things Potter was far more pronounced. It wasn’t much of a stretch of the imagination to see Snape setting Harry up or participating quite gleefully in any plan that involved pain and suffering for the son of the man’s most hated adversary, regardless if said adversary had been dead for over a decade. 

“So, he  _ can _ think things through” Ciri cut through Harry’s rumination in a voice sharp as any blade. “You have died several times simply because you do not reason your way through the situations you find yourself in, and now here after you have died you find that it is oh so simple. While we are at it, we will be discussing your complete lack of effort in your studies. You were aware from your first year that the man who murdered your parents was not only still around but actively hunting you, yet you were content to just laze around academically, letting others do the majority of your work for you.” Irritation was crystal clear in her words. “To be fair, that is yet another thing that may be put down to Albus’ manipulations. Though, not entirely.” 

Harry heard her words and couldn’t honestly refute them, but he didn’t find himself backing down one iota. 

He narrowed his eyes and stalked towards her desk, breathing deeply in preparation for what he felt was a well-deserved rant, only to find himself pinned in place by a harsh glare that promised no happy endings should he continue on his intended path. Feminine arms encircled him as his swelling temper deflated swiftly in the face of  Xixiri’s ‘no nonsense’ expression. Lily guided her son back towards the couch, pulling him back between herself and James with a pointed look that told Harry in no uncertain terms to mind his manners.

Realizing just who – or perhaps  _ what –  _ he had nearly began screaming at, Harry decided on a more diplomatic approach. Had he taken a moment to really think about that, he might realize that such an action was a surprising one coming from him. “Ahem... right. Sorry,” came his only slightly reluctant apology for nearly losing control.

“And there is another matter we must address; self-control.” Ciri went on, fully ignoring the almost incident. Harry flinched. 

“Many of the issues exhibited by you during your various attempts at life may be lain at the feet of others by dint of abusive conditioning –” You could feel the pressure in the room dropping as Lily Potter nee Evans’ expression took on a stormy cast alongside the also thunderous expression mirroring on James and Sirius’ faces. Each of their features only continued to darken as  Xixiri continued speaking, “- manipulation, and even blatant coercion. Don’t even get me started on the potions and compulsion magics.”

Harry’s head was beginning to spin. So many directions to go; devastated, aggrieved, furious, violated, betrayed, embittered... there were so many emotions demanding his immediate attention that he did what any teenager does in a situation where they are mentally overwhelmed. Tears poured from his eyes, although he was silent all the while. He needed answers, anything to quell the growing magma-infused lead weight in his guts.

Ciri’s next words certainly didn’t help matters. “Yes, much can be blamed on the actions or inactions of others. However, you certainly share in that blame, Mr. Potter.” 

Every overwhelming sensation Harry was feeling; the heated mass broiling in his guts, the spinning sensation in his head, the shivering of his skin as his body began to be overwhelmed, each of them gave way completely and suddenly to a snap of cold fury that no amount of cautioning or cajoling was going to subside. Each and every ounce of that fury was directed, appropriately or no, at the haughty Reaper of Souls staring at him from across the dark, neat desk.

“Oh?” Harry’s voice came out low and deceptively calm with an obviously mocking formality. “Yes, I can see what you mean,  Xixiri . I can see how I chose to be abused. How I asked to be  potioned and pushed, spelled and conned left and right. Yes... My fault entirely. Please do forgive me for  _ allowing  _ the people in my life to be utter trash.” Although he had started low and quiet, his voice rose slowly but steadily. The air in the room pressurized rapidly in an expression of magic that, quite frankly, caught the Reaper off guard. Mortals were not meant to access magic in the afterlife. ‘Interesting...’ She thought.

Frost began forming along the walls and the air between Harry and Ciri began to ionize while he continued to vent his spleen. “I can see how my decision to be chased by a psychotic murderer would put a damper on any plans you had for me... or was it that I begged that seer to make a prophesy, hmm?” With each word Harry’s skin faded away from the pale of an emotionally compromised young man to a pallor that one might associate with one already familiar with the grave. 

Xixiri felt a familiarity to the magic rolling off of Harry, a familiarity that was both alarming and exciting. This might make things easier, much easier... or it could turn everything into a total disaster. 

The elder Potters and Sirius watched Harry’s rising tirade in alarmed awe, unsure of what they were feeling. His grievances were justified to be sure, but who could use magic like this, here of all places!? 

Rivalt’s shadowy entrance brought him into being beside Xixiri, his expression stony. “Is there a problem here?” he asked simply. Harry didn’t even blink.

“Of  _ course _ not,” Harry responded in a voice laden with vicious sarcasm, “We were just discussing all of my efforts to sabotage my own life and the delicate plans of almighty Fate and Destiny! Obviously we won’t be-” 

Lily Potter cut off her son before too far became a line long since passed. “Peace, Harry!” She yelled, throwing her arms around her child and pulling him close. “No one meant to say that any of this is your fault!” Lily cut a glare at Ciri from over Harry’s shoulder as she cradled his head to the crook of her neck. While Lady Potter was well aware of her son’s faults and how they came into play with the discussion at hand, she certainly did not appreciate the way  _ Ms. Reaper of Souls  _ was getting Harry to see this as an attempt to lay the blame on his own shoulders. That, and the impossible magic he was channeling was seriously giving her the willies. 

Xixiri merely raised a well-manicured eyebrow at both displays.

“We know that you are not at fault for the way your life went, Harry.” Sirius picked up on what Lily had begun, seeking to diffuse the eminent explosion that could be felt within the room. “We know the lengths that other people went to in order to orchestrate how things turned out. I believe that what Ciri-” Sirius motioned to towards the woman with his chin while he pulled James into joining the dogpile of comfort (and restraint) around Harry “- was trying to say was that while everyone else was working against you, perhaps we could point out some ways that you could have helped things work more to your advantage.” 

A little Slytherin redirection was being called for and Sirius had been raised a Black, after all. 

Ciri allowed the subterfuge, though she didn’t really think highly of a group of mortals putting her words or motives to question. However, Harry’s display brought new topics to light and made continuing the conversation all the more imperative. “Perhaps my method of stating the facts could have been handled differently, but my point does stand.” 

Harry’s hackles rose again though he held his tongue for the moment, relishing in the comfort offered by his family. He was not going to let the topic drop so easily, however. They would be returning to this subject, that was for damn sure. 

Catching the look in the young man’s eye, Ciri pushed on. “While there is much to discuss, and even more to do, I feel I must ask you something.” Turning to James,  Xixiri asked “Your family's invisibility cloak, do you know its origins?”

“Er...” James responded, caught off-guard by the change in topic.

“No matter,” interrupted the Reaper, “That is not so important.” Turning back to Harry, she pressed forward. “Do you remember disarming Albus-”

“The Elder Wand.” Harry interrupted, not quite ready to play nicely. “That’s what this is about. Death’s Invisibility Cloak, The Elder Wand, and the Resurrection Stone I used in the woods.” Looking towards the ground, Harry began trying to work out why this topic seemed so important to an Immortal Reaper. “Does that mean the legend of the Deathly Hallows is true?” 

The others’ eyes widened dramatically.

“Not quite as they were written in modern times; you are certainly not ‘Death’s Master.’ However, it does mean that you have access to certain resources I had not expected. It also means we can bring someone else in on this, perhaps even bargain for certain... concessions.” Xixiri’s expression turned inward in concentration for a moment. “We will be discussing things with someone a little higher up than myself momentarily. They will be able to clear up a few things for you and, with luck, enable us to make use of options not typically available to the more delicate life-forms.”

Sirius was still bug-eyed, switching his stare back and forth between Harry and Xixiri. He was not afforded the opportunity to ask questions, though. 

“I will have to open the discussion with those above me. Take this time to reacquaint yourselves and discuss any matters not pertinent to our current situation. Perhaps Ms. Granger, for that matter.”  Xixiri provided, standing as she made ready to leave for a meeting that promised to be quite interesting. 

Sirius’ eyes widened and a wicked grin formed on his face as he turned fully to Harry, “Hermione, eh?” 

Harry rolled his eyes, partially letting go of his earlier ire and tabling it for later. “Down, you old mutt, it’s not like that... er, I think.” He turned to question Xixiri, finding the subject suddenly of much greater import. She was gone. Along with the desk. Not to mention every other piece of furniture in the room. Everyone remaining then noticed they were arranged on the floor without having moved off of the couch to get there. Harry glared ineffectually at the walls for lack of a prank-happy Reaper to voice his displeasure to. His family didn’t seem to care or found the display so utterly commonplace that it didn’t warrant a reaction. ‘Dead people,’ Harry complained to himself. 

* * *

As Harry and his family caught up with much ribbing and joking and the occasional tears, a certain Reaper took her time making her way to the “office” of another immortal. Not everyone was cut out for interfacing with the newly deceased. Of course, not everyone was cut out for roaming the earthly planes, seeking those who were cheating Death itself its due. Different strokes, one might say. 

Millennia ago, one such seeker ran across a trio of brothers with a knack for artifact creation and far too much time on their hands. Combined with a surplus of their own power, not to mention what they could achieve together, the three men delved into rituals and  summonings that should have been left well enough alone. In a riverside setting famous for the deaths of many who attempted to cross said river, they designed a ritual that would summon an Aspect of Death. This ritual required each to tempt fate and narrowly escape death, though the particulars of how were left to each of them individually. Once they had successfully called upon their intended Aspect (Mostly, the Seeker of Souls who arrived, Morticar [Mort to his friends if he had any], was curious... after all, eternity can get very boring) they were quite full of their accomplishment. 

They brought forth the greatest of their Artifacts, and demanded (rather haughtily, Mort might add) that Death itself bless their artifacts to even greater power. Seeing the opportunity to pull one over on some uppity mortals and figuring this might be a moment of levity in an otherwise droll existence, Mort agreed. Each had their artifact touched by the Magic of Death (so he told them), enabling them to reach heights never before attained by mortal man. Mort may have aggrandized a  tad, he was getting into his role. 

A stone meant to call forth and control any ghost for a short time was made changed to call forth the souls of the departed. Not that it really would, that wasn’t Mort’s department and he was  _ not  _ stepping on the toes of the Reaper Department. A few handy immortal level illusions and a curse later and The Stone would call forth a facsimile of those dear to the user who had died. They would then do their utmost to convince the user to join them in death.

A Wand meant to aid its user far beyond the norm by making their use of magic much more efficient was changed to enhance any spell cast through it to such a degree as to outmatch any opponent, thereby making its user undefeatable in combat. This wasn’t too tall an order to fill for Mort, but a Curse of Conflict and one to lower inhibitions towards actions that would lead to conflict while actively inhibiting common sense would make the user far more vulnerable. Add in a proximity curse that would make any others who knew of the wand covet it, and you had the makings for a grand prank that would lead to the death of many a mortal far too full of themselves for anyone's good. 

Lastly, a Cloak meant to hide from all manner of detection... well that wasn’t all that special. Mort was skeptical of the supposedly grand artifact and decided to show the lowly mortal how it was done. After all, no one could see an Aspect of Death unless they chose to be seen. The cloak was given all the magic Mort could channel into mortal material. From that point forward it would hide its user from everything, magical or mundane. Mort was quite proud of his achievement, noting that anything the cloak covered was hidden even from his gaze. It wasn’t until the potential consequences of this action occurred to him that  Morticar realized that he hadn’t in fact cursed the Cloak, nor did the implications of a mortal being able to hide from death actually sit well with his job. Oh well, the magic of the cloak should hide it from those in charge and as long as no one found out; what harm could really come? It wasn’t like the old artificer was going to wear the cloak all the time. 

Afterwards, Mort was dismissed by the trio (He was finished with them anyway, and if they did something stupid with those artifacts, he didn’t want to be caught having shared magic from the After Life anyway). He went on his way but kept an ear open for any word of new Artifacts causing a stir. He didn’t have to wait long. While the first two did exactly as they were meant to, leading to the deaths of their supposed masters, the last brought exactly the kind of heat that Mort was hoping to avoid.

A summoning, a real one, pulled him from earth to the office of Death. Death with a very  _ capital _ D. Death is an aspect of every reality, every world, every part of the Cosmos. Thus, the idea of any one entity ruling over death in its entirety sounded like the worst of any nightmare a being like Mort might have if they actually did have nightmares... or sleep. However, each world brought with it a slew of entities in charge of some part of Death working together while answering to higher ups holding similar positions at ever grander scales. Councils of such individuals could serve as a ‘Board of Directors’ if needs must. This is where Mort found himself; in a room full of grumpy Administrators who had many other things they would rather be doing.

He looked to the center of the room where those who had called him here sat, glaring at him out of their... eye? Singular. One eye between the three of them. Oh. This couldn’t be good. So it was that three representatives from the offices of Fate informed Mort that he had been witnessed interfering with a family whose destiny was of great interest to the imposing (and oft beleaguering) office. This led to Mort having to confess to his ‘prank’ and that was how he found himself bound to an office. An office that one slightly amused Reaper of Souls walked into much, much later.

* * *

“ Morticar ,”  Xixiri greeted the moping ex-seeker, now a mostly formless specter since his ‘grounding’ also consisted of not being allowed to coalesce into any solid form. “Still telling anyone who will listen about the injustices you are facing?”

“It was one prank,  Xixiri !” Mort defended loudly. “Besides, they fixed it, didn’t they?” Something about adding a little of  _ ‘Fate’s Touch’,  _ whatever that could be, to the whole set? No need to keep me here all this time.” 

This was a complaint anyone who dared brave Mort’s office for any reason had heard many a time. Of course, no one was going to dispute the argument. No one wanted to get between an angry office of Fate and their new favorite chew toy. Today, however, might just be Mort’s lucky day. 

“Actually, Mort, that is exactly what I am here for. We may just be able to settle up your debt to Fate and get you out of this office. Maybe they’ll let you take form again.” Unguarded and unreserved hope isn’t something you see often from an immortal being that has either long since grown out of emotional outbursts or even emotional expression, or never had such things to begin with in the first place. 

The vapor-like essence of Mort veritably oozed hope at that moment. “Really!? Well, why didn’t you say so? Where are we going? Let’s go!” Mort zoomed towards the door only to bounce off the boundary of the room. 

“Why do you even have a-” Ciri began, only to be interrupted by Morts testy response to a question he had heard enough times to last him any eternity.

“Symbolism, they told me. Something to emphasize that I am bound here. Able to see the exit, but not use it.” Mort supplied. Even formless one could easily note his anger and malcontent with the situation.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about this...” Ciri trailed off. “Mort, I need you to come with me to visit the Administrators.” She was hoping an invitation directly to the Board would allow  Morticar to temporarily leave his domicile. 

“Ex-Seeker  Morticar is bound to his office, Reaper Xixiri. You know this,” a reprising voice stated, originating from everywhere in the room at once. 

“Yes, but this matter involves the reason for his incarceration, and may be of great interest to the Office of Fate.” Ciri responded matter-of-factly.

There was a pause, after which both Ciri and Mort found themselves in the very chambers that Mort had met with Fate’s representatives before. The meeting was over quickly enough. It’s surprising how much can be accomplished without everyone in an office room so focused on self-aggrandizing. 

* * *

Meanwhile in a familiar room, a reunited family had settled into a gentle conversation about their respective lives. Harry was learning a great deal about his parents while he and Sirius bonded over their mutual distaste for one Severus Snape. While Harry would give credit where it was due – Snape had made effort to save his life a few times after all – he was sure all of those actions had been performed merely to ensure the elder man’s own chances to continue to torment harry as payback against his father and Sirius. Reanalyzing the memories given by his Potions professor, Harry had to wonder if Snape had enjoyed setting Harry up to die as a final form of retribution. 

Lily was nearly apoplectic with seething rage at her former friend for his treatment of Harry. Apparently, she’d had the opportunity to express her displeasure when he had been retrieved. Harry would have given much to see the memory. James and Sirius had both given the moment a miss, figuring their presence would lessen the impact on the damned man. According to Lily he was getting what he deserved, though privately she did wish that her childhood friend had not fallen so far. 

The whole family agreed without reservation that the Dursleys deserved whatever foulness that came their way, and they all agreed to aid that endeavor at the first opportunity and every chance given thereafter. 

For Harry, being in a room full of people who loved him and commiserated over every bit of suffering he had endured while at the same time laughing and celebrating his successes in life was a truly cathartic experience, and he began to slowly release a lifetime of grief and bitterness that he hadn’t even known he was harboring quite so deeply. 

Time is greatly meaningless to the dead and none could know how long they sat, rebuilding the ties of family and overcoming their pain together. While Harry was able to experience real family for the first time in his memory, everyone else enjoyed learning firsthand who Harry had grown to be. They discussed why he had held back in school, citing the influence of the Dursleys when he was in grade school. When he stated that he wasn’t actually sure why he’d never really applied himself at Hogwarts (Other than being afraid of losing Ron’s friendship), he was somehow not surprised to learn that he had been compulsed by Dumbledore, Potioned by Snape, and pushed by Ron in order to keep him behind academically.

Dumbledore had wanted his intended martyr to be weak enough not to believe he had any chance, even if he did decide he would rather live. Snape hated James, and thus Harry, enough to use his potion expertise to keep the son of his rival feeling inept and unintelligent. Ron both followed the orders of Dumbledore and also hated the idea of Harry being any better than he himself was. 

This of course opened the questions of the loyalties of his friends. Harry found himself completely devastated by the idea of Ron of all people,  _ his best mate,  _ having betrayed him from the beginning. Worse even, by the sounds of it, Ron had never actually been his friend in the first place. Of course, there were moments that called that idea into question. The end of third year being one such moment. Ron had stood with Hermione to defend Harry from the Mass Murderer Sirius Black. Not that it was necessary, but then they hadn’t known that at the time.

Sirius figured that Ron might have figured that he wanted to go out looking brave but Harry wasn’t so sure. He really did want to believe that somewhere in there, Ron truly had been his friend. 

All three adults could sympathize with Harry’s feeling of betrayal though. Lily had never cared very much for Peter but she had still been utterly shocked by his selling the Potter family to Tom Riddle and how he had framed Sirius for the same. 

Of course, Sirius was  never going to let one topic rest for long. “Let’s talk about the lovely Miss Granger now!” he chimed in during a lull in conversation. 

Harry blushed slightly and looked to his shoes. Lily shot Sirius a reproving look while James perked up in interest to the change in conversation. 

“Yes, that is a topic we must cover.” Harry looked up sharply as  Xixiri’s voice cut into the room. Harry went to stand, only to realize he was once again sitting on a couch. He froze, mind trying to work through the sudden changes as  Xixiri sat down at her desk, which had also apparently reappeared. A moment later, Harry noticed that there were others who had joined them, including a strange, pale man. He was walking slowly around the office with small steps, running his hands on the walls, over the desk, and once, oddly enough, over Sirius’ robes.

“Mort, sit.” Came Ciri’s amused voice. 

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been able to feel anything, Ciri?” Cried the man, Mort. 

“Sit.” There was no amusement this time.

Turning back to Harry and his family, Ciri began a round of introductions. “This is Morticar; he was once a Seeker of Souls. His job was to locate those who actively sought to cheat or thwart their deaths. He has some familiarity with your distant ancestors.” 

This got some raised eyebrows.

“Oh, not because they were running from Death, really.” Mort mused. “They... summoned me. Sort of. They were inventors, you see-”

Ciri cut him off, knowing he would want to drag out the actual sensation of using his voice as long as he could. Not that she could blame him, really.

“Mort here enchanted the Deathly Hallows as a prank on your ancestors.”

That got a reaction. “Wait, WHAT!?” The words were echoed from four separate incredulous voices.

“You know the story of the Peverell Brothers, or at least that which has been passed down and into legend and story.” Mort began again, with a glance that promised at least some form of brevity towards the other immortals in the room. “It isn’t quite what it has been made out to be, but yes, I did in fact place some additional magic into the artifacts that your ancestors created. However, we don’t need to go into any specifics at the moment. Suffice to say that the Hallows are real although they won’t make you the ‘Master of Death’ or anything like that, and they will play a part in this.”

Xixiri continued her introductions with the others in the room. “These ladies,” She indicated a trio of women who appeared to change at random to look like any large variety of old crones, never looking like the same person twice, “are our current representatives from the Office of Fate. You may refer to them as Madam’s Fate; they are addressed collectively. This tall gentleman here is from Administration.”

“You may call me Sir,” the gaunt, willowy man told them in a velvety, deep voice that Lily thought could sell ice to an Eskimo in the arctic. He reminded Harry of the Louisiana Voodoo man he’d seen on an old children's book in the library back in Surrey. Harry told himself to take care what he signed around the man. While he wasn’t wearing a purple tuxedo, the black suit he was wearing spoke of supreme comfort. Completing the ensemble, he even had a fancy top hat, although it was currently resting on the head of his even fancier cane. Sirius was edging away from the man, an expression of unadulterated fear on his face.

“Relax, Mr. Black. You might have heard stories of me, but you wouldn’t honestly believe all those sorts of things without getting to know me, would you?” The man had skin the color of decadent chocolate, eyes that were entirely pitch black, and a salesman's smooth goatee which he obviously maintained meticulously. The oily smile directed at Sirius was not in the least bit reassuring to the poor man. 

“Enough, we are dallying when it need not be so.” Came  Xixiri. “Let us get down to business and discuss what we are here to discuss.”

“Yes,” Replied the three Old Ladies in concert, “There is fate to rewrite!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very kindly for spending some time with me today. Do good things, have fun, and be of good cheer!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for spending some of your time reading my work! Do good things, have fun, and be of good cheer!


End file.
